With Every Borrowed Breath
by Silver Kitten
Summary: Spoilers for 2.04. Everyone has questions. Everyone has confessions. But sometimes there are no straight answers. Sometimes, there is only silence.


**With Every Borrowed Breath**

Warnings: Spoilers for 2.04 Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things and implied mentions of events that happened in the episode Faith. Mild language. Moderate to heavy fluff alert, depending how much you enjoy chick-flick moments.

Author's Note: I know I'm not the only one who wished the ending scene in episode 2.04 was extended just a teeny tiny bit…with, I don't know, a hug? Anyone else out there feel a bit deprived? Just a smidgen? Needless to say, I felt compelled to write this. Honestly, I wasn't going to. In fact, for a while I didn't let myself. I refused to open Microsoft Word. But I just kept watching that last scene with Dean's beautiful brokenness and I thought…WOULD YOU HUG HIM ALREADY, SAM?! So I had to write this, you see? I'm sorry, so sorry…I just had to. I've had quite a fancy with allowing those brief moments of a brotherly hug to occur in fiction before…but never has a scene ever required one more than this.

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural related except the tattoo I got on my chest that says 'Dean Winchester is the only man I'll ever let break my heart' because, come on, he does it _too _well. I'm just kidding—about the tattoo—all else is very certain.

-:-

"So, tell me. What could you _possibly _say to make that all right?"

Sam kept silent. And neither of them was sure how long the silence reigned. It may have been a few seconds, or possibly a few minutes. It might also have been ages before either of them made eye contact again. Each of them was tormented by the remnants of the conversation lingering in the air. Their thoughts were only entertained by silence, and that almost hurt worse than the words of confessed guilt.

But Dean waited, holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, his little brother would have something to say to make everything all right.

And Sam waited, holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, he might think of the perfect thing to say to make everything all right.

For however long it was—mere moments or eons—they waited in silence, because that's all that was left between them now, as all else was lost. But it wasn't for lack of searching.

Sam just needed more time, but there was never enough time. He just needed to think. He just needed to find the words to say. He just needed to make Dean all right again, and make them all right. But when it came down to opening his mouth and speaking, he was caught with the painful notion that whatever he said, Dean wouldn't believe him. Or it wouldn't be enough. And Sam just couldn't fail. He couldn't just half-ass his way through this, and he didn't want to. But God, Dean was crying. Warm, real tears. And Sam never felt so cold and empty and speechless. He needed to say something, anything.

But he didn't.

Because he couldn't.

And silence was getting eerily comfortable.

"Yeah," Dean let out a breath he may have been holding for years. "That's what I thought, too."

Sam faced Dean again, slightly embarrassed and completely helpless.

Dean meandered towards the edge of the road and stared out at the vast scenery.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered quietly. And although his back was facing Sam, the younger Winchester could tell he was now seething. And then Dean grabbed the nearest rock and flung it out into the wild forestry below the steep hill and yelled. "Son of a bitch!" His scream echoed throughout the hills and trees, as he sought out a violent end to the maddening silence.

"Dean," Sam was fast to lift himself off the hood of the impala and was by his brother's side in an instant, his hand on his shoulder, but Dean pulled away.

"There's nothing anyone can say to make this better." Dean took a few steps backwards. His voice was scarily accepting and calm. "Not even you."

"I can't change things. I wish I could. I wish I could make you all right—make us all right. And I wish you could understand that I'd do anything to have that kind of power." Sam sighed, stepped closer to Dean. "I loved Dad, you know? I mean…I miss him like hell. I do. But, Dean? If…and I do mean _if_ his death had anything to do with you being alive right now? Then…then I'm _glad_," Sam felt his throat swallow the last word as it tightened and tears threatened to fall.

Dean looked up at Sam with horrified disbelief.

"What makes me so god damned special that I should get to live?" The older Winchester's voice grew dangerously low. Sam held his ground.

"Look man, I can't validate your existence for you. Regardless of what I say, you'll just try to find an excuse to prove otherwise." Sam appeared very apologetic, but more towards himself for being unable to send healing words his brother's way.

"Yeah, well, a little validation would be nice. But don't worry about me. I have all the time in the world—twice leased—to figure it out. Seeing as how I can't seem to die, since someone keeps making that decision for me."

Sam narrowed his eyes and felt his jaw clench. "So what? You want to die, is that it?"

"No!" Dean's voice was crushed with a breaking sentiment of grief and turmoil. "I want to _deserve_ to live!"

Sam watched carefully, closely teetering on the edge of his own sanity, as the burden of tears glistened furiously in Dean's eyes and illuminated the anguish within them. And silence captured Sam once more.

"Every breath I take is borrowed," Dean continued painfully. "I don't know what right I have to be here anymore. What do I live for when I'm living on someone else's time?"

Sam grabbed a hold of Dean's jacket. He balled his hands into fists as he gripped the worn leather, and he wanted to shake his brother into some sense, wanted to take him up on that rain check for a freebie punch and just wake him up from whatever nightmare he was in that Sam couldn't seem to reach him and pull him out of.

Instead, Sam maneuvered his arms around his brother and squeezed until Dean finally just collapsed in his arms. But Dean didn't return the embrace, just lay there and waited in silence, not knowing what to do or say, and expecting no answer from Sam because it wasn't fair to.

The comforting pressure across his back increased and he heard Sam whisper into his ear. "_For me, Dean. Live for me._"

It was his answer. It was a plea.

And Sam didn't expect Dean to say anything, just listened to the gentle sobs from his brother trembling in his arms and held tighter. He didn't expect a reply, because that would be expecting too much from someone who only gave him everything he ever wanted.

But then two strong arms wrapped around him, equally as tight, and squeezed. Dean relinquished himself into a hug, with his brother, nonetheless. And in this case, that action spoke louder than words for Sam, and meant more than anything else.

-:-S-U-P-E-R-N-A-T-U-R-A-L-:-

Moonlight filtered in through the dirty motel window, cascading lined shadows and creases of darkly gleaming rays across the room. One particular moon ray fell over Sam's sleeping face, and Dean lay on his side nearest the edge of his bed and watched his brother in quiet admiration.

"Don't know where I'd be without you, kiddo," he said in a hushed voice.

He thought he saw Sam flash the smallest flickering of a smile afterwards, but it was well after midnight and he wasn't for sure if the lights were just playing tricks on his mind. Either way, Dean was appeased with the sight, if only a moment, because he realized he was granted many more moments like such in the future.

Things weren't really okay. Things would never really be all right. But things were the way they were for some reason or another. And even if Dean still felt guilty, he still felt. And that's what mattered to Sam, so that's what he'd make do with. Somehow, things would have to get better eventually. As long as he remembered they could be a lot worse. As long as he remembered he could be with a lot less.

Dean glanced over at Sam once more before shutting his eyes and smiling to himself as he went on his way to sleep.

He let out a long breath and took in an even longer one. It may have been borrowed, but he figured for every breath he took, there was something more preciously vital, something louder than the silence between each that was saying…

_For you, Sammy. I'll live for you._

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**Fin**

* * *

_I feel so much better. I hope you do, too, after reading. I know I didn't lay on the angst as much as I could have, or really drew out the events, but I wrote this more for myself, just because I needed them to hug. I'll leave the mending of the boy's to Kripke, because he can do it far better than I ever could. _

_Of course, constructive criticism always welcome, feedback very helpful and much loved. And I just want to say thanks to everyone who puts up with my rabid 'tagging' of these episodes…I hope it's nothing too annoying, and I mean no disrespect to the writer's of the show…I just love it so much, I crave more…_

_Thanks for reading…_

_Silver Kitten_


End file.
